The Reader

A poet dresses the naked word, with emotions. Such as the air in this empty room sops the hand and satisfaction it gives. Still, the pen he has used flows again and the page cherishes that in its roots— and produces blooms on the bed of spring. Ah, the spirits are splattering on the tasteful styles, but the mails on your phone are comme il faut the summer sheets of petering dust. A note from him is among them, unread. I watch at the poet. It is so vain not to peruse— that I opt instead to read his soul.